5 Times Kurt Hummel Was Slushied
by travelingpact
Summary: ...and One Time He Slushied Someone Else


Title: Five Times Kurt Hummel Was Slushied…

Summary: …and One Time He Slushied Someone Else.

Author: travelingpact

Rating: PG

Warnings: bullying, references to pre-series canon character death

Pairings: Blaine/Kurt, mentions of Quinn/Puck, light implied one-sided Karofsky/Kurt

Word Count: 2,555

Disclaimer: None of the recognized characters or settings belong to me. I am merely playing in Fox and Ryan Murphy's sandbox.

Author's Note: This is quite old, and one of my first attempts at Glee fic writing. Gratuitous headcanons ahoy, and some major purple prose.

1.

It was the cold that stunned him first.

A freezing, wet slap in the face, shocking his skin as it dripped down his favorite white t-shirt, worn with a pair of girls' slim jeans from Old Navy and his mother's brown belt, the one that cinched her floor skimming pastel sundresses in the summer and held up sturdy and stylish jeans in the winter, shoveling snow with his father and building snow people with him.

Then it was the sugary sour sting.

He clutched his hands to his face and let out a whimper of pain as the artificially-flavored drink stabbed at his blue-green eyes that Dad always said were just like his mothers, said quietly, wistfully over a cup of coffee out of the old, chipped "#1 Daddy" Kurt and Elizabeth had painted together in a mother-daughter pottery class.

But then it was the taste.

The frozen drink dripped into his mouth, dropped open in shock and pain and anger that this was the first day of high school, and his dad left early for the shop today and his mom was six feet under rotting in a box and already they're throwing stuff at him for the thing he feared and cried for every night and it's grape, the flavor of those few fruit snacks that he hated but Mama, she loved, and he would always hand over the grape-shaped gummies to her when they swung together on the playground.

And he wiped the slushy out of his face with trembling hands and looked around with burning eyes.

A tall boy in a striped polo was being clapped on the shoulder by a tan-skinned football player in a red and white jacket.

"All right, Hudson! You got him gooood!" he howled, his head thrown back in laughter. Soon, a small circle gathered around them, a mix of hesitant aspiring freshmen, sensing the imminent hierarchy emerging, and the jacket-clad kings with shoulders shaking with the hilarity of the baby-faced boy being punched in the face with a grape-flavored drink from the worn down gas station two blocks away from the school.

Kurt stood there, tears mixing with the ice on his face.

As the small crowd dispersed, the upperclassman leaned into the boy, still clutching the slippery plastic cup in his left hand.

"Football tryouts are next Wednesday after school. Make sure you're there." With a final clap to his shoulder, the senior left, pursuing a Cheerio in a tight skirt sauntering down the florescent-lit hallway.

Kurt looked up and the slushier looked away.

2.

Two weeks later he thought he was prepared.

Kurt braced himself as he saw the red 7-11 cup held oh so casually in Noah Puckerman's hand, but nothing was ever held "casually" in Puckerman's hand and now he's Puckerman or Puckzilla, not Noah like he was when they were kids and played house together and Noah was the Daddy and Kurt was the Mommy because all the girls hated Noah because he pulled their pigtails and pushed them in the dirt, which he never did to Kurt because Kurt was different, Kurt's always been different. But now Noah Puckerman's hardened, his father gone and his sister older, and Kurt's softer, his mother dead and his friend disappeared, changed into this bully who, there we go, throws slushies at the gay kid.

He closes his eyes and turns his head as it hits him, glad he remembered the dark blue sweater in his locker that he just bought from the Gap at the Westerville Mall he dragged Dad to when they went all the way out there to find parts for the engine that Kurt was rebuilding.

Rubbing his face with the sleeve of his cardigan, he tried to remember which way it was to the boys' bathroom, the smell of artificial cherry wafting from his collar.

He pushed open the door to the restroom and immediately slammed into a warm chest that smelled like Old Spice and cheap detergent and cigarette smoke, and large hands grasped his shoulders almost tenderly, catching him there, before throwing him back against the door.

"Get out of here. You don't belong…_fag_," a trembling voice snapped, the final word said louder as the speaker shoved past him, too scared to face him properly.

Kurt pressed himself against the wooden door, tears pricking his eyes, before letting the door swing behind him and striding, as proudly as he could, to the door marked "Ladies".

3.

A couple of months later and Kurt was thrown in with the trash, thrown into a trashcan, had trash thrown at him, and slushies had become a weekly occurrence.

Which is why it shouldn't have surprised him when the blond girl, hair pulled up into a high ponytail and cheerleading uniform meticulously ironed, tossed a neon-green drink, garishly colored to match the impending holidays, into his face as he was walking by her locker where she was chatting up the recently-Mohawked "Puck".

"Huh, nice shot, Quinn," he smirked as he closed her locker and snaked an arm around her waist, right there in front of everyone was his abuse and their affection and it seemed like they always seemed to follow one another, like Kurt could never have happiness as long as others wanted it too, like he couldn't have his mother this Christmas, just like last Christmas, and the Christmas before that, all because a doctor went home early to celebrate with his kids, didn't bother looking at the x-rays, too much in a hurry because she was obviously overreacting and he needed to stop by the toy store to finish Santa's list for his two daughters.

"I hope you get knocked up and spend the rest of your miserable life in this backwards town as the town drunk's wife," Kurt spat at her as he stomped off to the girls bathroom holding his head high because damn it, it felt good to say the angry things he thought and wished and he was going to walk this hallway like it was his damn runway and nobody was going to mess with Kurt Hummel without getting a good tongue lashing in return.

Nobody pushes around the Hummels.

4.

It came out of nowhere.

There was a high-pitched shriek (high C, actually, quite impressive) and then small, frantic hands belonging to a girl in a bunny sweater pushed him to the left and then ducked as chunks of red ice came flying toward them and hit Kurt smack in the face. He sucked in a breath out of shock and sputtered, the cherry drink going straight up his nose and it was dripping onto his new shoes that he _just_ bought for the last day of school, to show everyone that he didn't give a fuck, he'd wear knee high boots if he wanted to, and someone was slapping him on the back as he hacked and coughed and finally his throat was clear even if the cherry lingered in his nose.

Kurt looked up to see wide brown eyes staring back at him.

"Oh good, you're fine. I was worried that you would need other assistance, seeing as I'm not yet certified in CPR quite yet, though I should be in a few weeks, because it's important to be ready in any crisis. I'm glad I remembered what to do in this instance, though. You could have choked to death and while that kind of emotional inspiration would vastly enrich my performances, I would prefer if no one _had_ to die for the sake of my talent and future fame. You're welcome, by the way. My name is Rachel Berry, in case one day you want to dedicate a park bench to the girl who saved your life."

Incredulous, he looked at her through stinging eyes.

She smiled at him. "That's B-e-r-r-y." With a wide smile, she turned and walked away unscathed.

5.

The months went on.

Countless slushies were thrown. He did a lot of laundry and never told his Dad.

He transferred. Then transferred back. Then Blaine, wonderful, perfect, beautiful Blaine, transferred to McKinley.

And Kurt was terrified. He spent every minute he could by Blaine's side, tugging him away from football players and dumpsters and the 7-11 and thanking all of Glee Club constantly for their turn-around help, treasuring the time in class as "safe" time, when _they _couldn't get to Blaine, because he didn't care what they did to him but _nobody _was going to touch _his_ Blaine.

He saw it out of the corner of his eye as Mike and Artie walked off to Calculus and left Kurt to walk Blaine to their Statistics class, a plastic cup emblazoned with the gas station logo on the shiny, condensation slick surface, filled with an icy purple drink that was now flying through the air at the same speed that Kurt slammed Blaine back against a locker and turned to face the jock with his eyes screwed shut.

As he faced the cold, grape-flavored blow to the face and to his pride and to his wardrobe because shit, this was going to cost a fortune to get dry cleaned properly, he heard a shrill whistle pierce the hubbub of hallway chaos.

"Richardson! My office, now! I have a new book on torture techniques written by an ex-member of the Taliban and I want to test some theories!" roared Sue Sylvester through her microphone.

She stopped in front of Kurt and Blaine, still pressed against the cold locker in shock, and lowered the megaphone.

"You can wash up in the girls' locker room, Porcelain. You can help him, Frodo. Just no gay babies because you two would breed a Will Schuester look-alike with your coloring and your hair…" she trailed off, tilting her head in contemplation. "Except no butt-chin. That's a problem. I didn't figure that into my plans," she muttered as she walked away, corralling Richardson with a stern look.

Blaine slipped his hand into Kurt's and tugged him gently to face him.

"Let's go," he said quietly, an unreadable expression on his face.

Kurt nodded, feeling ashamed and angry all at once that he couldn't stop them from pulling shit like this, no matter what, they were still going to make his life a living hell and now Blaine was stuck with him and it was all his fault and-

And then Blaine pulled him in and kissed him on the lips, gently and slowly, in front of everyone, sharing the taste of the grape flavor that Kurt hated and loved and would always remind him of his mother, _in front of everyone_, and he could have this.

He could have this.

1.

"Okay, keep them closed…" Blaine warns, leading Kurt by his hand through the door to the chorus room, which Kurt could always identify because of the slight smell of musical instruments and books of music and learning and friendship that lingered in the air long after everyone went home.

He steps and slips a little on a slick, plastic-y surface, and clutches Blaine's hand tighter. "What's going on?" he asks, suspicious from the moment that Blaine told him he had a surprise because Blaine's surprises tended to consist of overly-inappropriate songs done with great fanfare and the like.

"Open your eyes."

Nothing had changed. The piano was in the same place, and there weren't any banners or streamers hanging from the ceiling and the only thing that was different was-

Beneath his Oxford-clad feet was a plastic drop cloth, like the ones he used when he painted his room and he squinted down and actually, that is the drop cloth he used when painting his room and why in the world does Blaine of all people have that and what is going on?

He looks up to see Blaine holding a grape-flavored slushy and he automatically drops Blaine's hand, turns his face away, and closes his eyes as tightly as he can. It's a Pavlovian response to years of torture, one that even the bright eyes of his boyfriend can't prevent.

Nothing happens. The seconds tick by, as his panicked mind tries to figure out what the hell is going on, but he's certainly not going to relax until he's received his abuse and can't he just throw it already? Because the suspense is terrible and dragging on forever.

"Kurt?" Blaine asks, gently, and he feels a hand on his wrist. "Look at me, please."

And because he trusts him, trusts him so much, trusts him more than maybe he trusts anybody else, even himself, he opens his eyes.

The slushy is held out as an offering between them, above the drop cloth and equidistant from their chests.

"What…?" Kurt shakes his head in confusion.

"It's just…I've never been slushied. And you have. A lot. And…" Blaine shifts on his feet, searching for words. "I just thought that maybe it would help. If you slushied me. Because I know I'll remember the first time it hits me and you've protected me so far and even took a slushy for me last week and I just thought…" he trails off, uncertain. Biting his lip, he says quietly, "Nevermind, it was stupid."

"I…" Kurt tries to voice the thoughts that were ricocheting off the insides of his brains and the emotions battling in his heart and only one thing really makes it past his lips, "Why grape?"

"I knew that…well, you told me once that grape reminded you of your mom. And I thought that maybe it could be kind of full circle kind of thing?" He pauses and gauges Kurt's non-reaction. "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. This was a terrible idea. I'm so sorry," Blaine apologizes dejectedly, turning to throw the slushy away.

"Blaine." Kurt stops, takes a deep breath. "Hand me the slushy."

He turns back to Kurt, eyebrows knitted together and Kurt has an insane compulsion to kiss his forehead and smooth the wrinkles there. Hesitantly, he offers Kurt the drink.

"Are you sure?" they ask simultaneously, and laugh, the tense moment broken.

Kurt nods.

Blaine smiles, and takes Kurt's hand again.

"Close your eyes. It's going to sting," he warns before slowly pouring the drink on top of Blaine's gelled head.

He watches the purple ice as it clumps in Blaine's impossible eyelashes, watches a chunk disappear down the collar of Blaine's black polo and resists, for now, the temptation to follow it with kisses, watches Blaine shiver as it cascades down his body until Kurt's holding an empty cup and the floor is splattered with purple.

And he just looks. Looks at the trust Blaine has, looks at the grape his mother loved, looks at the weapon of the bullies who made high school hell for him, feels it all come crashing together in a weird mind-collage and he wants to cry and laugh and kiss Blaine so he does all of that, pressing his smiling lips against Blaine's grape-soaked ones and letting his tears mix with the ice on Blaine's face and Blaine's slow to react at first but then he lifts his other hand up and grasps Kurt's jaw and pulls him close because they're alright, they'll always be alright.

And they laugh and keep kissing, keep holding, because for the first time the feeling of cold doesn't feel so cold anymore.

_fin_


End file.
